


(everything leaves) a mark on your soul

by shineyma



Series: roller coaster [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Hydra Grant Ward, Season/Series 02, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 16:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13979061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Grant's the Head of Hydra. His soulmate's a SHIELD agent.This is going to take some working out.





	(everything leaves) a mark on your soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jdphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/gifts).



> A gift for my favorite JD, who a) has a busy couple of days ahead of her, and b) gave me the push to finally write this after planning to for AGES. I hope you enjoy, dearest! <3
> 
> Please note, this is a sequel to [this roller coaster ride (is an enticing one)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6853051). It might make sense if you don't read that, but it'll make MORE sense if you do.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! <3 (And thanks to everyone who's left a comment recently! I'll answer those later today - right now it's 2:30am and my bed is calling. <3)

When the Quinjet finally lands back at Nemesis (after a very long flight made even longer by anticipation), Grant finds Hicks waiting for him.

“She’s upstairs,” he says at once, falling into step as Grant heads for the elevators. “Markham and Aldridge are with her.”

Grant nods to himself, approving of the choice. Aldridge’ll have put Jemma at ease. “She say anything?”

“Not much.” Hicks shrugs. “Asked for a change of clothes right away, turned down lunch the first couple times we offered, accepted soup the third time. She was asleep on the couch when I left.”

“The _couch_?”

Hicks gives him a little sideways look, and Grant huffs a laugh. Fair enough—Jemma’s a SHIELD agent, which means she’s gotta be pretty freaked just from setting foot in a Hydra base. Being encouraged into her (brand new, very Hydra) soulmate’s bedroom would probably be a step too far.

“Good call,” he says. There’s already an elevator open and waiting for him; he hits the button for his floor a little harder than he really needs to. “Any injuries besides the wrists?”

“No, sir,” Hicks says, “but she’s a little jumpy. Markham said she was being held prisoner?”

“Yeah.” As unamused as Grant is by the thought of that asshole Gonzales keeping his _soulmate_ locked up—and he won’t be forgiving those bruises on her wrists anytime soon—he can’t help smiling as he remembers the haughty disdain she aimed at the guy. Jemma might _look_ small and cute, but she’s obviously got a hell of a backbone. He likes that. “Some kind of civil war going on within SHIELD, it sounds like.”

Hicks tsks. “Now isn’t that a shame.”

“Just breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” he asks. “Explains why Gonzales wanted a truce, though.”

“It does,” Hicks agrees as the elevator _finally_ slows to a stop. “And about that: you gonna keep it?”

Grant scoffs. “Please.”

Hicks’ “Just wondered, considering” fades into background noise as the doors slide open, because the very first thing Grant sees is his soulmate.

She’s here. In _his_ living room, stretched out on _his_ couch, under that ridiculous throw Ortilla made when he got into crochet a few months ago, the one with the lopsided Hydra logo.

He’s waited more than thirty years for her, and here she is. Finally. Here and his…and SHIELD.

“Some plans might have to change,” he admits, to himself as much as to Hicks—and even though he’s careful to keep it to a whisper, Jemma’s eyes snap right open.

“Oh,” she says, and pushes herself up. “Hello.”

“Hey,” he says. The throw’s puddled around her lap, and he gets hit with an amazing rush when he recognizes the shirt she’s wearing as one of his. His soulmate, on his couch, wearing his shirt—it’s a hell of a look. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s all right.” Jemma smooths down her hair. “I didn’t really mean to fall asleep.”

“Yeah,” Aldridge—and fuck, Grant hadn’t even noticed her; he’s gotta watch this world-narrowing-to-his-soulmate thing—says, bouncing to her feet. “She just pretended to doze off to make Markham stop talking to her. You know him, never shuts up.”

Markham rolls his eyes.

“Right,” Grant says. “Well, I’ll spare her any more need to pretend. Get lost, all of you.”

Jemma’s eyebrows go up, but Grant’s people are used to him; the abrupt dismissal doesn’t ruffle any feathers. Hell, Aldridge actually claps with glee.

“Yay! I was afraid I wasn’t gonna make my date.”

“No details,” Markham orders, with the world-weary weight of a man who’s already been through about ten too many rounds of Aldridge’s overshares. Grant sympathizes. “Save it for Warrington.”

Hicks whistles. “She’s gonna murder you, man.”

The conversation continues as the three of them file into the elevator, but Grant blocks it out. He’s much more concerned with his soulmate.

She looks nervous, and while he doesn’t like it—at all—he can certainly understand it. She’s a SHIELD agent, and she’s gotta be a damned dedicated one to still be sticking around after all this time. For her to still carry that title after the uprising, the government crackdown on all things SHIELD, _and_ whatever shit’s going on with Gonzales and his people—SHIELD has to really mean something to her.

And he’s the Head of Hydra. He’s got a well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness; under his leadership, for the first time in decades, Hydra’s actually making real progress on the world domination front…and SHIELD’s his only serious obstacle.

Jemma’s deep in enemy territory here. There’s no way she doesn’t realize that.

Little wonder she’s nervous.

All that in mind, he decides not to beat around the bush. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“No?” Jemma picks at the throw on her lap, avoiding his eyes. “Even if I tell you that I will never, ever join Hydra?”

“Even then.” He leans against the nearest armchair, propping his arms on top of the backrest. “Not saying I wouldn’t love to add you to my science department, but I’m not gonna force you, sweetheart. You can spend the rest of your life doing crochet, for all I care—Ortilla can give you some tips.”

His attempt to lighten the mood falls flat, but he was pretty much expecting it to. Still, it was worth a shot.

“And if—” She swallows. “If I say I’m not interested in being with you at all?”

_That_ gives him pause, but only for a second. He knew it was a possibility the second she stared Gonzales down; no one who takes that much pride in being a SHIELD agent is gonna be thrilled to find out their soulmate’s involved with Hydra.

“I’ll try to change your mind,” he admits (honesty is key here), “but I still won’t hurt you.”

Jemma’s quiet for a minute, mulling that over, and he takes the opportunity to really drink in the sight of her in his shirt. It’s too big for her—obviously; she’s tiny—and is therefore slipping off her right shoulder, giving him a nice look at her bright red bra strap. He remembers how soft her skin was, how she flushed when he touched her mark and bit her lip when he kissed her knuckles—

—aaaaand that’s probably not a great path to go down when she’s talking about not being with him. With regret, Grant reins in his wandering thoughts.

“And what if I tried to leave right now?” Jemma asks.

“Still not gonna hurt you,” he says, because he can’t possibly stress that enough, “but I _would_ have to stop you. Gently.”

“You’ll hold me against my will?” she asks quietly. “Keep me from my friends? My team?”

Yeah, this conversation can only hurt his chances…but then, what’s the alternative? Send her back to SHIELD, for them to hide her away forever? Or, worse, for them to lose her again, like they did to Gonzales?

Better to keep her and never have her than to let her _go_ and still never have her.

“Unfortunately,” he says, and shrugs. “I’m sorry. But I’ve got a lot of enemies who’d just _love_ to get their hands on my soulmate. You’re safer here, with me.”

“Safer,” she echoes, a hint of that haughty disdain in her voice. “In Hydra.”

He’s obviously about to lose her—which means it’s time to bring in some mitigation.

“Come on,” he says, and pushes off the chair. “I’ve got something that might make it a little better.”

“I highly doubt it,” Jemma mutters, but nonetheless she stands and follows him to the closet just off the kitchen. “If you’re going to name your _pantry_ as a selling point…”

“Nothing like that,” he promises, biting back a laugh, and opens the closet door. “Here.”

The closet’s set up as a one-stop shop for all his Hydraing needs, which means go bags, weapons, fake IDs, and more—all (except the go bags) carefully hidden away in a perfectly innocuous dresser. It’s the _more_ he’s counting on to smooth things over a bit, and so he pulls open the third drawer, revealing his extensive supply of burner phones.

Jemma stares.

“I can’t let you leave,” he says, “but I don’t want you to think you’re a prisoner here. You wanna call your friends at SHIELD, your family—whoever you want, whenever you want. Just choose a phone. You can even destroy it after you use it, if you’re worried about me using the number to track your team.”

“This is supposed to make things _better_?” she demands. “That you’re giving me _permission_ to talk to the people I love?”

Despite the attitude, though, she’s visibly softened. He’s won at least a few points with this.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and risks tucking her hair behind her ear—mostly, if he’s honest, because he just can’t stand not to touch her any longer. “I know it isn’t ideal. But I’ve lost too much to risk you.”

She looks away.

He wants to push further, harder—wants to get her to admit that _she_ wants _him_ , to take her down the hall to his bedroom and get her out of his shirt and hold her, _touch_ her the way he’s been waiting to do his whole life.

But it’d be way too much, way too soon. Pushing further now will only mean pushing her away.

It’s time to give her some space.

“Speaking of losing,” he says, “Gonzales was holding you prisoner, right?”

(Right up until he handed her over like _currency_ in their peace talks, that is. Grant’s gonna make him pay for that.)

Jemma’s eyes narrow. “Yes. Why?”

“Your team must be worried about you.” He nods to the phones. “Why don’t you give them a call, let them know you’re all right?”

“I…”

“Go on.” Grant picks one up and hands it to her. “I bet you’ll feel better once you do.”

“I will,” she admits, clutching the phone to her chest. “But…”

“I’ll make us some dinner while you do,” he says. “How do you feel about spaghetti? Any allergies?”

“No,” she says, and then blinks. “I mean, no, I don’t have any allergies. And spaghetti’s…fine?”

She sounds a little thrown—which is fair. A lot of people seem to have trouble with the idea of him cooking. (He’s not sure why; not like being Head of Hydra means he stops needing to _eat_.)

“Great,” he says, and—because he can’t resist—takes her by the shoulders to turn her back towards the living room. “Take your time with the call. Me and the spaghetti will be here when you’re done.”

Still looking a little off-balance, she goes back to the living room. Grant’s only human, so he takes a second to admire her legs in the yoga pants she’s wearing (God knows who those belong to; they’re sure not his) before proceeding to the kitchen.

Of course, he’s got a nice open floor plan—clear lines of sight are important in this business—so he can still see Jemma while he cooks. The breakfast bar does a nice job of separating the two spaces, but it doesn’t do shit to muffle sound; there’s nothing to hear when he turns the water on, but by the time he’s filled a pot, she’s mid-call, and as soon as the water’s off, he gets her side loud and clear.

“Are you sure?” she’s asking. The call must not be going well; she’s pacing the living room, chewing on her thumbnail while she listens. “No, neither could I. But the false SHIELD doesn’t have her—Gonzales was up in arms about it, the bastard.”

A pause.

“Sorry, sir.”

Another pause, longer this time. Grant, belatedly realizing he hasn’t switched the stove on, does so.

“Not…exactly.” Jemma sighs. “Actually, he—well, I suppose you could say he traded me away.”

Judging by her wince, whoever she’s talking to isn’t happy about that. Neither is Grant, to be honest; he can’t really _complain_ (who knows when or if they’d have met otherwise), but he doesn’t appreciate his soulmate being treated like fucking _property_.

“To my soulmate,” she says, wincing again, and Grant reluctantly turns away to start gathering ingredients for a nice sauce.

(It’s hard. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off of her. She’s just—she’s _beautiful_ , and having her here, in his space, after so long…he could watch her all day.)

“I don’t know,” she says as he starts mincing some garlic. “Bobbi’s seen my soulmark—I can only assume she recognized his handwriting, although why she’d be familiar with it…”

He scowls down at the garlic. Jemma’s soulmark was pretty low on her chest. Who the hell is this Bobbi woman, and _why_ has she seen it?

Jemma takes a deep breath, as if steeling herself, and he knows before she even opens her mouth what she’s about to say. “Grant Ward. Yes, that Grant Ward.”

Three guesses how _that’s_ gonna go over.

“I—no, sir, I’m fine. Really. No, he’s been very kind—nicer than the false SHIELD, at any rate.” She sighs, and he hears a slight creak that suggests she’s settled back on the couch. “He insists he’s not going to hurt me…but he also said he won’t be letting me leave.”

He doesn’t know what to make of her tone there. She’s clearly not _happy_ , but…it’s not outright _my soulmate is horrible, please come save me_ , either.

“No,” she snaps, surprising him. “No, sir, absolutely not.” She might’ve been sitting a second ago, but a quick glance now proves she’s up and pacing again. “I’m better off here than I was in Vault D—yes, I’m serious. Anne and Gonzales _dressed me up_ and handed me over to the _Head of Hydra_! And, perhaps worse, they were clearly pursuing a truce with him. If they’re willing to stoop so low…”

That’s a very ominous (and honestly kind of offensive) trailing off, but Grant’s a little more concerned with the ‘dressed me up’ part. He does _not_ like the sound of that, not one fucking bit.

“Whatever they have planned for Skye, it can’t be good,” she says softly. “You need to find her before they do—and then you need to take back the Playground.”

The water’s boiling. He dumps some spaghetti in and sets a timer for good measure; he’s getting too distracted listening to Jemma.

“No, sir,” she says, and then again, “ _No_. For the moment, at least, I’m perfectly safe here. I should be your last priority.”

As convenient as it sounds for him, Grant doesn’t like that idea at all—and whoever she’s talking to must not, either, because all she gets out for the next few minutes are vowel sounds and cut off syllables. Eventually, she lets out a very heavy sigh, and he turns away from the now-simmering sauce as he catches her approach in his peripheral vision.

Even though she’s visibly frustrated, he has to smile; she must’ve been playing with her hair while she talked, because it’s kind of a mess. A very _cute_ mess, but still a mess.

“Grant,” she says, and fuck, does he love the sound of his name in her accent, “do you mind if I take this into your bedroom?”

He kinda wants to refuse, if only because the curiosity’ll kill him, but denying her privacy when she wants it sure as hell isn’t gonna help sell her on staying here, so he pushes the urge aside.

“Go ahead,” he invites, and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “End of the hall.”

“Thank you,” she says, and storms off. “Now, sir, if you would _please_ just…”

Grant’s shoulders itch as her voice fades out. He doesn’t like it, her being out of sight and out of earshot, and this is the second time today. Sending her off with Markham was hard, if necessary; letting her walk away from him in his own apartment, on the other hand, has all his instincts _screaming_ at him.

The soulbond at work, he assumes. It’s been almost twelve hours since they met, and they haven’t had anywhere _near_ enough physical contact.

Something to work on…assuming Jemma’s willing.

The thought that she might _not_ be isn’t a pleasant one, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. He focuses hard on making dinner, letting the rhythm of setting the breakfast bar and cleaning up the mess he’s made and straining the spaghetti distract him from any worst-case scenarios.

It’s enough to keep him from joining her in his room, at least, so he’ll call it a success.

He’s no sooner moved the sauce off the burner than Jemma reappears, and even as he’s opening his mouth to compliment her timing, she marches right up to him and shoves him back against the counter.

His mouth clicks closed.

“I’m not happy,” she says, very clearly. “Not about you being involved with Hydra at all, let alone Head of it, and not about your insistence on keeping me here.”

She’s still got a hand on his chest from where she shoved him; before he can come up with a reasonable response to her very blunt declaration, it fists in his shirt and yanks him down into a kiss.

Grant’s getting some mixed signals here, but he’s not about to complain. Instead, he pulls her close, cups her face as he deepens the kiss, enjoys the taste of her, the softness of her skin, the little sound she makes in the back of her throat…

By the time she breaks the kiss for air, he’s about ready to have her right here on the counter.

It’s probably a little soon for that, though. Bummer.

“Oh,” she says, and leans back a little. She’s still clutching his shirt, though; that’s something. “Well.”

She’s flushed, and it only deepens when he rubs his thumb across her cheek. His skin (and hers, he’s guessing) hums at the contact.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

Jemma smiles. “Thank you.”

He’s got plenty of questions for her—a lot of them fall under the category of _propositions_ , actually—but looking at her, flushed and gorgeous with one of his t-shirts falling off her shoulder and Hicks’ voice in his head (“Asked for a change of clothes right away”), he finds that one of them just can’t wait.

“I have to ask,” he says. “I couldn’t help but overhear—Gonzales ‘dressed you up’?”

To his regret, it wipes the smile right off her face.

“Yes,” she says stiffly. “I’ve been in a cell the last few days and wasn’t afforded a change of clothes until this morning—at which point I was ordered to shower and given an outfit to wear.”

The little tremor in her voice is enough to make his blood boil—and so is the memory of the outfit in question.

It was a great outfit, no doubt about that—pretty, low-cut sweater that emphasized her cleavage, tight little skirt that showed off her legs—and he definitely appreciated it at the time. But knowing that she didn’t choose it herself? That it was _given_ to her?

The look was for his benefit. It must’ve been. And he can only imagine how terrifying it was for her, being—how did she put it? _Traded away_ to a man like him, dressed like _that_.

Grant’s never touched a woman who didn’t want him. He doesn’t have _many_ lines, but he does have some, and rape is way the fuck over them. Plenty of fish in the sea; if a woman doesn’t want him, he moves on, plain and simple.

He’s got a reputation, though. He knows that. Jemma would have no reason to believe he’d keep his hands to himself…and he didn’t, did he? He was all over her the second he realized she was his. Held her in his lap, even, and never gave her the chance to say no.

Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and forces himself to let go of her. “If I scared you—I didn’t mean to.”

He’s gonna kill Gonzales. Gonzales and Weaver and whoever that other bitch was, the one who came in with Jemma. Never introduced herself, which’ll make her harder to track down, but he’ll manage.

They’re all gonna die. Just _dressing up_ his soulmate, like she’s a piece of meat or something, like she’s a _toy_ that they can just _hand over_ to win his favor…

Yeah. They’re gonna die. Slowly.

Jemma’s staring at him. He can’t quite read her expression. She doesn’t look scared, at least, so that’s something, but…

“Dinner’s ready,” he says, because he has to say something, and she starts.

“No,” she says.

“Uh…?”

“No,” she repeats, and moves in close again, backing him up to the counter. “You didn’t scare me. Those—those _traitors_ scared me, treating me the way they did, but you didn’t.” She smiles up at him, eyes soft. “Though I do appreciate the apology.”

Relief washes over him, practically weakening his knees. How much of that is him and how much is soulbond-induced emotional instability, he doesn’t know; all he knows is that, thus reassured, he can’t resist the urge to touch her again.

So he cradles her cheek in his palm, enjoying the rush the contact gives him. The soulbond wants— _he_ wants—even more. Wants her in his arms, in his _bed_.

He’s glad he didn’t scare her before. He doesn’t want to scare her now, either.

“What do you want?” he asks her. “You said you weren’t happy and then you kissed me, so…”

“Right.” Jemma nods to herself. “I’m _not_ happy. Not about Hydra and not about being kept against my will. But…” She hooks two fingers in one of his belt loops and leans in very close—close enough he’s forced to let go of her face. He wraps his arm around her waist instead. “My conversation with my superior officer reminded me just how miserable these past few weeks have been.”

Grant…has no idea what to make of that. “Okay?”

“You’re my soulmate,” she says fiercely. “The only one I’m going to get. Being a SHIELD agent means making sacrifices, I’ve always known that, but—” She bites her lip. “But I’m not willing to sacrifice you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, and tugs her that little bit closer, into a proper hug. She’s warm and soft and fits like she was made for him…because she _was_. “Since I’m not interested in sacrificing you, either. But where does that leave us?”

“I’m not here willingly.” She cuddles into his chest as she says it; again with the mixed signals. “So I’m going to escape.”

Grant laughs. He can’t help it. “Well, you can certainly try, sweetheart. Kinda gave away the element of surprise there, though.”

“I don’t need it,” she assures him, with a frankly adorable level of smugness. “Additionally, I’m probably going to try to talk you out of any and all evil deeds you may be planning.”

“Looking forward to it,” he says honestly. She’ll _fail_ , of course, but that doesn’t mean he won’t enjoy her attempts. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” she says, and pushes up onto her toes. It doesn’t put them quite on level, but it gets her lips a lot closer to his. “Before I leave, I want our soulbond cemented. And the best and quickest way to achieve that, as I’m sure you know, is through intercourse.” She kisses him once, very softly. “So I intend to have quite a lot of sex…assuming you’re amenable, that is.”

Fuck.

“Oh,” Grant says, once he’s sure he can trust his voice—it takes a minute. “I’m very amenable.”

“Excellent.” Jemma beams. “Then, if you don’t mind, I’d very much like you to take me to bed now, please.”

She doesn’t have to ask him twice.


End file.
